Drabble Challenge - Post # 6
*throws confetti* 31 drabbles finished! Who knew the day would come only about a month later?
Um...here's the thing. So a drabble is supposed to be 100 words or so, right? Which, with 31 drabbles, would have made for a grand total of 3100 words. In actuality, the final word count is 18200 words. *squee*
I hope that all of you who have requested drabbles from me have received what you were looking for. I had a lot of fun challenging myself and trying to expand the full potential of various requests and prompts. I thank you all for coming along for the ride and for sticking with me; you're all pretty freaking amazing!
(Also, don't be surprised if another call for drabble requests is posted in the next few days....or few minutes.)
For the first batch of prompts, click here.
For the second batch of prompts, click here.
For the third batch of prompts, click here.
For the fourth batch of prompts, click here.
For the fifth batch of prompts, click here.
Please comment! Comments are love!
Fandoms include: Gilmore Girls/The L Word, RPF, Grey's Anatomy, The Devil Wears Prada, The House of Eliott, AU Devil Wears Prada
Requests by: mrschimpf , kitnkabootle , ellipsisoveruse , dragonwine
Title: Work of Art
Prompt: nude model, teacher's pet
Fandom: Bette/Paris, The L Word/Gilmore Girls
Requested by: mrschimpf
Rating: PG13
Word Count: 456
Disclaimer: Not mine. Wish they were. Please don't sue.
Author's Note: I had way too much fun picturing this…I hope I managed to capture Paris's voice, though I'm not so sure I caught Bette's. Oh well…I hope you like it anyway!
-
Paris slumped into her chair with her arms folded resolutely across her chest, watching students file into the class around her. She was surprised at the turnout; she hadn't expected such popularity in an art theory course.
She still wasn't sure what she was doing in the class to begin with. Medical school didn't exactly warrant a plethora of free time to allow for superfluous studies in art. However, her advisor had pulled her aside and requested (in strict tones) that she seriously consider taking an art class. Despite her protestations, he managed to convince her that she might benefit from seeing the human body as more than just muscle and bone.
Still, Paris didn't think there was anything wrong with looking at the human body from a purely analytical, textbook view. She was a damn med student, for crying out loud! But alas, she was not one to stray from a mentor's advice, and therefore found herself registered in Critical Theory in Art of the Human Form.
As the whispers died around her, Paris fixed her gaze on the woman who appeared at the front of the classroom. How had she missed seeing her when she walked in?
"Good morning. Welcome to Critical Theory in Art of the Human Form. I'm Dr. Bette Porter. I'm sure many of you have heard of this class's reputation by now. The art that we'll study is not designed to be snickered at or treated like a teenage boy. If you are incapable of assessing the human body seriously, then I highly suggest you leave my class. Childish, disrespectful behavior will not be tolerated." She paused, looking around the room. "Good." She smiled and began to push aside the mobile dry erase board that had been set up in the center of the room.
The class collectively gasped as Dr. Porter revealed a nude model sitting on a stool. The man was posed as the statue of David.
Dr. Porter grinned as her eyes swept over the shocked faces of her class. "Take out your notebooks and a pen. For the next ten minutes, I want you to draw our modern day David here. I don't care how crude of a rendering it is. To truly see the human form, we must consider it from every point of view. You may begin."
Paris shifted in her seat, unable to tear her eyes away from the gorgeous professor standing before her. She knew that when she returned to her apartment at the end of the day that she wouldn't remember a thing about the naked man sitting ten feet in front of her, but would remember everything of the woman that would make her appreciate much more than art theory.
---
Title: A Thousand Words
Prompt: secrets
Fandom: Meryl Streep/Amy Adams, RPF
Requested by: kitnkabootle
Rating: PG
Word Count: 282
Disclaimer: Not mine. Wish they were. Please don't sue.
Author's Note: *whines* this was haaaaard. *pouty face* I hope it's not tooooo awful, but this way the squeamish RPFers can imagine that the secrets have to do with sunshine and daisies, and the non-squeamish can imagine that the secrets have to do with hot, steamy sex. Either way, here are some of the photos that I had in mind when I wrote this: here | here | here | here | here
-
It's said that pictures are worth a thousand words, that you can glance at an image and be able to ascertain a variety of insights into its subjects. You can look at a photograph of two women and judge, based simply on the type of their smiles, if they are genuinely happy or if they are forcing a jovial demeanor for the sake of the resulting photograph. You can tell, based on their stances, whether they are strangers or whether they share a certain level of intimacy.
If you know how to look, how to read, you can see the things that aren't meant to be seen. You may, perhaps, pick up on the secrets that abound between the subjects. You may notice that mouths are a little too close, that friendly kisses are a little too intimate, that touches on the thigh are a little more unseemly.
You may look at a kiss on the cheek, an ordinary greeting, and be overwhelmed by a limitless supply of contextual possibilities. Only so much can be captured by the lens of the camera. For instance, what happens in the uncaptured angles? Did a loitering hand steal a caress? Did a whisper follow?
For everything that is seen and unseen, there is always the possibility for promises, for secrets.
You will never look at a photograph and decide that it is devoid of secrets. They don't exist. There is always something hidden, some stashed away thought or emotion that is meant to be tucked aside for the sake of the picture.
Those secrets are almost never public knowledge. It is up to us to contribute the one thousand words to examine the endless possibilities.
---
Title: Make Her Tick
Prompt: tickling, hairbrushing, discoveries
Fandom: Erica/Callie, Grey's Anatomy
Requested by: mrschimpf
Rating: NC17
Word Count: 648
Disclaimer: Not mine. Wish they were. Please don't sue.
Author's Note: *grins* This was fun to write. Have fun :D
-
Exactly two minutes after Callie experiences an intense, toe-curling orgasm, Erica purses her lips and asks, "Do you think we've rushed things?"
Callie wants to ask Erica if she's serious about asking this when she's in her post-climax happy place, but she knows better. Erica is serious.
"Nope."
"I'm serious, Callie…you don't think we're moving too fast?"
Callie watches as Erica modestly tucks the sheet around her breasts and leans against the headboard.
"I honestly think we moved at just the right pace for us. You're not having doubts, are you?"
Erica slumps a little. "No! Oh no, not at all. I just, you know…I worry. I want to do this right. I want to know everything about you."
"You just got to know me pretty intimately a few minutes ago."
Erica's blush makes Callie's heart clench. "You know what I mean."
"I know." Callie slides a little closer to where Erica lies, pulling the sheet free from the tuck beneath her arm. "And I want to know you too." She kisses Erica's bare shoulder and grins when Erica shudders. "I want to know what gets you hot."
Erica raises an eyebrow. "I'm pretty sure you've already figured that out already."
Callie nods as she takes an already-puckered nipple into her mouth. She swirls her tongue around the taut bud and sucks. Erica gasps. "I know your neck is sensitive and I know that you are putty in my hands when I scratch your scalp. But what," she kisses between Erica's breasts, "makes," and moves lower, "Erica," and licks at her belly button, "tick?" She concludes her question by sucking on the expanse of flesh just above the line of her pubic hair.
"OH!"
Erica's sudden jerk sends her abdomen into Callie's face. "Oh God, are you okay?"
Callie rubs her nose. "If I'd been about four inches lower we'd have had some problems, but I'm good."
Erica's face burns. "I'm so sorry."
Callie grins and licks her tongue along the spot she'd just sucked. "Aren't we sensitive?"
"I guess so."
"Let's see…" She begins to place small kisses along her lower abdomen, focusing greatly near the curves of her pelvic bone. Erica's cries and squirms all but indicate that she's a fan.
"I can't tell if you're turned on or ticklish."
"Both," Erica pants. "Definitely both."
Callie smiles and begins to suck, using her shoulders to keep Erica's legs from bucking against her. Erica makes noises she's never heard before and her "fuck me now" is nearly incomprehensible, but Callie obliges. As she continues to suck and bite at her flesh, Callie slides two fingers into Erica's gushing sex.
Several things then happen at once. Callie inserts a third finger and curls them upwards, presses her thumb against Erica's clit, and sucks hard. Within seconds Erica is coming with a moan that seems to come from her belly, her head thrashing against the pillow and her hips spasming so hard that Callie has to wonder if this hurts more than it pleases.
Erica doesn't relax so much as collapse. "Damn," is all she says, and Callie's pretty sure she's never had so huge of a shit-eating grin on her face.
"I think I found what makes you tick, babe."
"Uh yea…I'd say you did."
Callie props herself up on her elbow and inspects the hickey she's left on Erica's abdomen. "That's gonna be pretty in the morning."
Erica lifts her head and groans. "You know my underwear's gonna rub right up against that, right?"
"At least you'll be in scrubs."
"To say nothing for the constantly rubbing and pinching of the elastic."
"You could go commando."
"Not to work, no thank you."
"At least you'll be thinking of me all day whenever you feel it, eh?"
Erica motions for Callie to settle in beside her and she complies. "Who says I wouldn't already be thinking of you?"
---
Title: A Changed World
Prompt: Dido's 'Sand in my Shoes'
Fandom: Miranda, The Devil Wears Prada
Requested by: ellipsisoveruse
Rating: PG13
Word Count: 289
Disclaimer: Not mine. Wish they were. Please don't sue.
Author's Note: I've listened to this song 1974653 times, and this is the resulting drabble. I hope it's what you had in mind!
-
Miranda parts the curtains, peeking at the early Parisian sunrise. It's going to be a beautiful morning. She's unimpressed.
She walks away from the window, shifts the vase of white roses on the table, and sits on the loveseat. She stares blankly at the hazy glow that filters in through the window and casts a stream of light across her floor. Her right leg, which is crossed over her left, catches the light just upon the tips of her toes.
Andrea's gone.
Stephen is leaving her.
She's due to return to New York on a flight that embarks this evening and the fleeting desire to stay in Paris crosses her mind.
Miranda looks away from the sunlit window.
Everyone leaves.
She's not sure which betrayal is worse -- her husband's or her assistant's. She ponders the thought and decides that Andrea's abrupt departure is infinitely worse. It will undoubtedly hurt her reputation to have lost a third husband. It will also greatly impact the girls in ways that Miranda is not looking forward to facing.
But Andrea hurt her. It's more than just her pride. She's not sure what it actually is.
Miranda prides herself on not needing a man to be satisfied or fulfilled. She could exist perfectly fine without a male companion; she's never found having a husband to be a necessity.
It's not the fact that Andrea is -- was -- an assistant. She's had assistants come and go and it's never wrought such havoc on her peace of mind.
She needs Andrea but cannot ask her back. She cannot beg her to return.
In a few hours she will begin the journey home to a changed world, and Miranda finds herself to be inexplicably lost.
---
Title: Hands of the Devil
Prompt: 1920s, "That will be all, Joseph."
Fandom: Bea/Miranda, The House of Eliott/The Devil Wears Prada
Requested by: kitnkabootle
Rating: PG13
Word Count: 671
Disclaimer: Not mine. Wish they were. Please don't sue.
Author's Note: You are terrible for leaving me such difficult prompts! I hope I managed to give you what you were looking for, and that I stayed in character!
-
According to the clock on the wall, the meeting has only been in progress for about seven minutes. For Beatrice Eliott, seven minutes is all she needs to discern that she in no way likes Miranda Priestly.
While the House of Eliott could stand for a bit more press than it's currently receiving, Bea is not sure that she is willing to sell her soul to the devil in order to make that happen.
"You have no idea what I can do for you, Miss Eliott. Favorable recognition in my publication would greatly improve your popularity. There is no doubt in my mind that your fashion house would be preferred over Maison Gilles."
Bea hates that her heart thuds a little faster within her chest at the prospect of toping Maison Gilles. For once her own designs might actually gain more popularity than the competing fashion house and it's nearly frightening how quickly her mind is beginning to shift into Ms. Priestly's favor.
"Have you not featured them in the past? I may even have a back issue tucked away here." Bea motions at her desk, knowing for certain that Evie has shown her such an article only several months back.
Miranda nods and waves her hand dismissively. "It's not a secret that they've been favored by me. Let's just say that they've left a bad taste in my mouth."
Bea can't help but stare at the woman's rouged lips and wonders, for a moment, if she has ever issued a genuine smile in her life.
"But what makes you think that the House of Eliott would leave a good taste?"
Her breath catches in her throat as Miranda's eyes slowly begin to rove over her figure. She feels…naked.
"I already like what I've seen."
Bea stares into the icy, challenging eyes of the editor seated across from her, completely baffled. The woman's forelock falls across her brow as they hold each other's gazes and Bea's fingers itch as she longs to tuck it aside. Miranda almost looks amused.
Bea does not have long to question who will break the stare first; a knock at the door causes Bea to start. "Yes?"
Joseph enters. "Ma'am, there's a Miss Parkiss here to see you."
"Thank you, Joseph. Please ask her to wait a few minutes longer." She watches him as he stares at the peculiar editor, his eyes appreciatively drinking in the sight of her. "That will be all, Joseph."
He nods and leaves. The corner of Miranda's mouth turns up into a grin.
"Am I being ejected from your office?"
"Of course not. I need time to think about this offer, Ms. Priestly."
"I insist that you call me Miranda."
"You're a businesswoman, Miranda. Surely you understand my hesitations in putting the image of this House in your hands when, for nearly four consecutive seasons, you've made Maison Gilles the favorite in the city."
"If you're looking for me to explain the process of my decision making, I can assure you that it will not happen. I don't justify my decisions to anyone, much less a woman to whom I've personally made this offer. I could have sent one of my assistants to you, but I came alone. I don't make a habit of prostrating myself to others, Beatrice. It's usually the other way around."
"Are there ulterior motives?"
"Why speak in such terms?"
"I have no reason to trust you. I'm not sure that I do."
"Aah, but you have no reason not to trust me."
Bea smirks. "I will have to run this proposal by my sister."
"Naturally."
"I'm very intrigued, Miranda; don't misread me. I want to do the right thing by this business."
Miranda leans forward, her eyes shimmering. "Who says that impulsive decisions can't be the right thing?" Miranda stands, clutching her purse to her chest. "I can assure you, Beatrice, that you will be in very good hands. Good day."
Bea watches Miranda go, and within the devil's hands sifts the remnants of her soul.
---
Title: Queen of Swords
Prompt: "between shadows of a remembered time…"
Fandom: Miranda/Andy AU, The Devil Wears Prada: Lesson Learned
Requested by: dragonwine
Rating: R
Word Count: 1037
Disclaimer: Not mine. Wish they were. Please don't sue.
Author's Note: When dragonwine requested that I write a drabble based on his AU DWP fic, Lesson Learned, I have to admit that I was a bit nervous to attempt to emulate the brilliance he has achieved. This man is a master of words and the eloquence he puts forth into each chapter can only be savored. (In face, if you haven't yet read this ongoing fic, I suggest you get your booty over here and check it out! ) Also, FYI, the description of the Queen of Swords is not made it; it's straight from a book. Anyway, I sincerely hope that I have lived up to his expectations and that I have managed to contribute a companionable addition to the Lesson Learned universe.
-
Andy squares her shoulders and straightens her back to reach her full height, demanding a little respect and recognition with the space that she's now taking up. She's got every damn right to be here and stares down the line of men at the bar as she makes her way to the back room. Screw this "men only club" bullshit -- if she wants to take a gander at tits and ass, she's damn well going to.
She's not sure what she's doing in a strip joint anyway. She's got a paper for Dean Frost to finish and she knows she's got to put the advice from their one-on-one lessons to good use. All she wants to do is knock this paper out of the park, but history is the last thing on her mind.
She follows Anastasia into the dimly lit back room and makes a beeline for a seat away furthest away from the room's other occupants. She could do without hearing the pathetic groans of the puppets around her; it'll be all she can do not to watch them leave the room with hands in their pockets, pulling the fronts of their trousers away from rapidly deflating, jizz-covered dicks.
Andy settles back against the chair as the ebony beauty lasciviously licks her lips and spreads Andy's legs so that she may dance between them. She tries to hard to focus on the sway of Anastasia's hips but her mind is already drifting, wafting away from the present like the smoky haze around her.
Strip clubs aren't usually her thing. This is the sort of hideout that she anticipates her brother to favor with his frat chums, and she supposes she can't blame him. The feminist in her struggles to pick a side: her righteous anger flares for the working moms who need a few bucks just to scrape by, and her anti-conventional air sticks with the girls who're doing it for the sexual power.
It doesn't really matter where she places in stripper politics; she knows a few of the girls who work here and really needs to be lost in the shadows for a while.
Andy feels like a lost soul and as Anastasia grinds her ass into her thigh, she remembers exactly why she's sitting in a shady nudey bar instead of focused on her analysis of the French Revolution.
She blames it entirely on the Queen of Swords.
Andy's not much of a tarot reader; she could do without 78 judgmental cards attempting to assess her future and make random proclamations based on the contents of her mind at that moment. It takes a fair amount of gullibility to think that a pack of cards could tell the future when all it takes is for the reader to project their desires onto the cards and mold themselves to fit. It's a pile of bull, but she plays with the deck on occasion when she's desperate to procrastinate or simply needs an occupation for restless fingers. The cards aren't even really hers: a brief sexual stint with a pagan spiritualist left Lily with an abundance of crystals, tarot cards, and incense, and somehow most of it had been pawned off on Andy.
She'd been sitting on the floor of her bedroom, scattered notebooks to one side, splayed out tarot deck on the other. As she reread her illegible notes aloud, she shuffled and reshuffled the deck, pulling out miscellaneous cards as she went. She never put much stock into which cards she pulled-- that is, until she pulled the same card three times.
Anastasia pulls off the silver latex bikini top and drops it to the floor and Andy's mind is caught momentarily by the large, dark nipples hovering inches from her face. She's intrigued by their size, their shape, but the Queen of Swords reclaims her attention.
The image of the be-throned Queen brandishing a large sword had gnawed at her curiosity to the point where she'd been unable to continue with her notes. With a resigned sigh she'd pulled out the little book that came with the deck and flipped to the card's description: "The Queen of Swords is a mature woman, possibly a widow or divorcee. She is an independent lady who is rational, intelligent, and tends to be cool in a crisis. She's graceful, possibly with a fondness for music or dancing. She believes the right facts can fix any problem, and will offer that instead of sympathy or warmth. She is very alert to undercurrents and should not be underestimated."
If that damn card doesn't sum up Miranda Priestly, then Andy Sachs is a boy-banging girly-girl.
Andy doesn't know much about how to read a tarot card, but she's up on her 5th grade math skills enough to know that pulling a single card multiple times out of a deck of 78 isn't the most likely of occurrences.
And that's why Andy's here and why Anastasia's hands are sliding along the length of her thighs.
Miranda Priestly, Queen of Swords, is manifesting herself in every facet of Andy's life, and the fact that Andy can't have her is enough to send her into the sweaty hands of a stripper. The beer she'd drained prior to purchasing a lap dance runs swiftly through her veins and the stale smoke and lingering scent of men's spendings curls into her nostrils and fills her lungs with poison. It makes her lightheaded and anxious and angry.
Anastasia is beginning to look bored and Andy can tell that the dance is nearly over. She doesn't mind. She'll likely slug down a glass of water before she seeks the comfort of her Harley-ride home.
And as the stripper brushes her abnormally large nipples against her chest, she notices him over Anastasia's shoulder.
Irv Ravitz is sitting in a chair across the room, a petite blonde with a pixie-cut dry-humping him for all he's worth.
Andy has to choke back a laugh. If only Dean Priestly could see him now, the man would never be able to reclaim his dignity--or his balls.
And then it crosses her mind that she's still thinking of Miranda Priestly.
The Queen of Swords slays her once again.
---
Um...here's the thing. So a drabble is supposed to be 100 words or so, right? Which, with 31 drabbles, would have made for a grand total of 3100 words. In actuality, the final word count is 18200 words. *squee*
I hope that all of you who have requested drabbles from me have received what you were looking for. I had a lot of fun challenging myself and trying to expand the full potential of various requests and prompts. I thank you all for coming along for the ride and for sticking with me; you're all pretty freaking amazing!
(Also, don't be surprised if another call for drabble requests is posted in the next few days....or few minutes.)
For the first batch of prompts, click here.
For the second batch of prompts, click here.
For the third batch of prompts, click here.
For the fourth batch of prompts, click here.
For the fifth batch of prompts, click here.
Please comment! Comments are love!
Fandoms include: Gilmore Girls/The L Word, RPF, Grey's Anatomy, The Devil Wears Prada, The House of Eliott, AU Devil Wears Prada
Requests by: mrschimpf , kitnkabootle , ellipsisoveruse , dragonwine
Title: Work of Art
Prompt: nude model, teacher's pet
Fandom: Bette/Paris, The L Word/Gilmore Girls
Requested by: mrschimpf
Rating: PG13
Word Count: 456
Disclaimer: Not mine. Wish they were. Please don't sue.
Author's Note: I had way too much fun picturing this…I hope I managed to capture Paris's voice, though I'm not so sure I caught Bette's. Oh well…I hope you like it anyway!
-
Paris slumped into her chair with her arms folded resolutely across her chest, watching students file into the class around her. She was surprised at the turnout; she hadn't expected such popularity in an art theory course.
She still wasn't sure what she was doing in the class to begin with. Medical school didn't exactly warrant a plethora of free time to allow for superfluous studies in art. However, her advisor had pulled her aside and requested (in strict tones) that she seriously consider taking an art class. Despite her protestations, he managed to convince her that she might benefit from seeing the human body as more than just muscle and bone.
Still, Paris didn't think there was anything wrong with looking at the human body from a purely analytical, textbook view. She was a damn med student, for crying out loud! But alas, she was not one to stray from a mentor's advice, and therefore found herself registered in Critical Theory in Art of the Human Form.
As the whispers died around her, Paris fixed her gaze on the woman who appeared at the front of the classroom. How had she missed seeing her when she walked in?
"Good morning. Welcome to Critical Theory in Art of the Human Form. I'm Dr. Bette Porter. I'm sure many of you have heard of this class's reputation by now. The art that we'll study is not designed to be snickered at or treated like a teenage boy. If you are incapable of assessing the human body seriously, then I highly suggest you leave my class. Childish, disrespectful behavior will not be tolerated." She paused, looking around the room. "Good." She smiled and began to push aside the mobile dry erase board that had been set up in the center of the room.
The class collectively gasped as Dr. Porter revealed a nude model sitting on a stool. The man was posed as the statue of David.
Dr. Porter grinned as her eyes swept over the shocked faces of her class. "Take out your notebooks and a pen. For the next ten minutes, I want you to draw our modern day David here. I don't care how crude of a rendering it is. To truly see the human form, we must consider it from every point of view. You may begin."
Paris shifted in her seat, unable to tear her eyes away from the gorgeous professor standing before her. She knew that when she returned to her apartment at the end of the day that she wouldn't remember a thing about the naked man sitting ten feet in front of her, but would remember everything of the woman that would make her appreciate much more than art theory.
---
Title: A Thousand Words
Prompt: secrets
Fandom: Meryl Streep/Amy Adams, RPF
Requested by: kitnkabootle
Rating: PG
Word Count: 282
Disclaimer: Not mine. Wish they were. Please don't sue.
Author's Note: *whines* this was haaaaard. *pouty face* I hope it's not tooooo awful, but this way the squeamish RPFers can imagine that the secrets have to do with sunshine and daisies, and the non-squeamish can imagine that the secrets have to do with hot, steamy sex. Either way, here are some of the photos that I had in mind when I wrote this: here | here | here | here | here
-
It's said that pictures are worth a thousand words, that you can glance at an image and be able to ascertain a variety of insights into its subjects. You can look at a photograph of two women and judge, based simply on the type of their smiles, if they are genuinely happy or if they are forcing a jovial demeanor for the sake of the resulting photograph. You can tell, based on their stances, whether they are strangers or whether they share a certain level of intimacy.
If you know how to look, how to read, you can see the things that aren't meant to be seen. You may, perhaps, pick up on the secrets that abound between the subjects. You may notice that mouths are a little too close, that friendly kisses are a little too intimate, that touches on the thigh are a little more unseemly.
You may look at a kiss on the cheek, an ordinary greeting, and be overwhelmed by a limitless supply of contextual possibilities. Only so much can be captured by the lens of the camera. For instance, what happens in the uncaptured angles? Did a loitering hand steal a caress? Did a whisper follow?
For everything that is seen and unseen, there is always the possibility for promises, for secrets.
You will never look at a photograph and decide that it is devoid of secrets. They don't exist. There is always something hidden, some stashed away thought or emotion that is meant to be tucked aside for the sake of the picture.
Those secrets are almost never public knowledge. It is up to us to contribute the one thousand words to examine the endless possibilities.
---
Title: Make Her Tick
Prompt: tickling, hairbrushing, discoveries
Fandom: Erica/Callie, Grey's Anatomy
Requested by: mrschimpf
Rating: NC17
Word Count: 648
Disclaimer: Not mine. Wish they were. Please don't sue.
Author's Note: *grins* This was fun to write. Have fun :D
-
Exactly two minutes after Callie experiences an intense, toe-curling orgasm, Erica purses her lips and asks, "Do you think we've rushed things?"
Callie wants to ask Erica if she's serious about asking this when she's in her post-climax happy place, but she knows better. Erica is serious.
"Nope."
"I'm serious, Callie…you don't think we're moving too fast?"
Callie watches as Erica modestly tucks the sheet around her breasts and leans against the headboard.
"I honestly think we moved at just the right pace for us. You're not having doubts, are you?"
Erica slumps a little. "No! Oh no, not at all. I just, you know…I worry. I want to do this right. I want to know everything about you."
"You just got to know me pretty intimately a few minutes ago."
Erica's blush makes Callie's heart clench. "You know what I mean."
"I know." Callie slides a little closer to where Erica lies, pulling the sheet free from the tuck beneath her arm. "And I want to know you too." She kisses Erica's bare shoulder and grins when Erica shudders. "I want to know what gets you hot."
Erica raises an eyebrow. "I'm pretty sure you've already figured that out already."
Callie nods as she takes an already-puckered nipple into her mouth. She swirls her tongue around the taut bud and sucks. Erica gasps. "I know your neck is sensitive and I know that you are putty in my hands when I scratch your scalp. But what," she kisses between Erica's breasts, "makes," and moves lower, "Erica," and licks at her belly button, "tick?" She concludes her question by sucking on the expanse of flesh just above the line of her pubic hair.
"OH!"
Erica's sudden jerk sends her abdomen into Callie's face. "Oh God, are you okay?"
Callie rubs her nose. "If I'd been about four inches lower we'd have had some problems, but I'm good."
Erica's face burns. "I'm so sorry."
Callie grins and licks her tongue along the spot she'd just sucked. "Aren't we sensitive?"
"I guess so."
"Let's see…" She begins to place small kisses along her lower abdomen, focusing greatly near the curves of her pelvic bone. Erica's cries and squirms all but indicate that she's a fan.
"I can't tell if you're turned on or ticklish."
"Both," Erica pants. "Definitely both."
Callie smiles and begins to suck, using her shoulders to keep Erica's legs from bucking against her. Erica makes noises she's never heard before and her "fuck me now" is nearly incomprehensible, but Callie obliges. As she continues to suck and bite at her flesh, Callie slides two fingers into Erica's gushing sex.
Several things then happen at once. Callie inserts a third finger and curls them upwards, presses her thumb against Erica's clit, and sucks hard. Within seconds Erica is coming with a moan that seems to come from her belly, her head thrashing against the pillow and her hips spasming so hard that Callie has to wonder if this hurts more than it pleases.
Erica doesn't relax so much as collapse. "Damn," is all she says, and Callie's pretty sure she's never had so huge of a shit-eating grin on her face.
"I think I found what makes you tick, babe."
"Uh yea…I'd say you did."
Callie props herself up on her elbow and inspects the hickey she's left on Erica's abdomen. "That's gonna be pretty in the morning."
Erica lifts her head and groans. "You know my underwear's gonna rub right up against that, right?"
"At least you'll be in scrubs."
"To say nothing for the constantly rubbing and pinching of the elastic."
"You could go commando."
"Not to work, no thank you."
"At least you'll be thinking of me all day whenever you feel it, eh?"
Erica motions for Callie to settle in beside her and she complies. "Who says I wouldn't already be thinking of you?"
---
Title: A Changed World
Prompt: Dido's 'Sand in my Shoes'
Fandom: Miranda, The Devil Wears Prada
Requested by: ellipsisoveruse
Rating: PG13
Word Count: 289
Disclaimer: Not mine. Wish they were. Please don't sue.
Author's Note: I've listened to this song 1974653 times, and this is the resulting drabble. I hope it's what you had in mind!
-
Miranda parts the curtains, peeking at the early Parisian sunrise. It's going to be a beautiful morning. She's unimpressed.
She walks away from the window, shifts the vase of white roses on the table, and sits on the loveseat. She stares blankly at the hazy glow that filters in through the window and casts a stream of light across her floor. Her right leg, which is crossed over her left, catches the light just upon the tips of her toes.
Andrea's gone.
Stephen is leaving her.
She's due to return to New York on a flight that embarks this evening and the fleeting desire to stay in Paris crosses her mind.
Miranda looks away from the sunlit window.
Everyone leaves.
She's not sure which betrayal is worse -- her husband's or her assistant's. She ponders the thought and decides that Andrea's abrupt departure is infinitely worse. It will undoubtedly hurt her reputation to have lost a third husband. It will also greatly impact the girls in ways that Miranda is not looking forward to facing.
But Andrea hurt her. It's more than just her pride. She's not sure what it actually is.
Miranda prides herself on not needing a man to be satisfied or fulfilled. She could exist perfectly fine without a male companion; she's never found having a husband to be a necessity.
It's not the fact that Andrea is -- was -- an assistant. She's had assistants come and go and it's never wrought such havoc on her peace of mind.
She needs Andrea but cannot ask her back. She cannot beg her to return.
In a few hours she will begin the journey home to a changed world, and Miranda finds herself to be inexplicably lost.
---
Title: Hands of the Devil
Prompt: 1920s, "That will be all, Joseph."
Fandom: Bea/Miranda, The House of Eliott/The Devil Wears Prada
Requested by: kitnkabootle
Rating: PG13
Word Count: 671
Disclaimer: Not mine. Wish they were. Please don't sue.
Author's Note: You are terrible for leaving me such difficult prompts! I hope I managed to give you what you were looking for, and that I stayed in character!
-
According to the clock on the wall, the meeting has only been in progress for about seven minutes. For Beatrice Eliott, seven minutes is all she needs to discern that she in no way likes Miranda Priestly.
While the House of Eliott could stand for a bit more press than it's currently receiving, Bea is not sure that she is willing to sell her soul to the devil in order to make that happen.
"You have no idea what I can do for you, Miss Eliott. Favorable recognition in my publication would greatly improve your popularity. There is no doubt in my mind that your fashion house would be preferred over Maison Gilles."
Bea hates that her heart thuds a little faster within her chest at the prospect of toping Maison Gilles. For once her own designs might actually gain more popularity than the competing fashion house and it's nearly frightening how quickly her mind is beginning to shift into Ms. Priestly's favor.
"Have you not featured them in the past? I may even have a back issue tucked away here." Bea motions at her desk, knowing for certain that Evie has shown her such an article only several months back.
Miranda nods and waves her hand dismissively. "It's not a secret that they've been favored by me. Let's just say that they've left a bad taste in my mouth."
Bea can't help but stare at the woman's rouged lips and wonders, for a moment, if she has ever issued a genuine smile in her life.
"But what makes you think that the House of Eliott would leave a good taste?"
Her breath catches in her throat as Miranda's eyes slowly begin to rove over her figure. She feels…naked.
"I already like what I've seen."
Bea stares into the icy, challenging eyes of the editor seated across from her, completely baffled. The woman's forelock falls across her brow as they hold each other's gazes and Bea's fingers itch as she longs to tuck it aside. Miranda almost looks amused.
Bea does not have long to question who will break the stare first; a knock at the door causes Bea to start. "Yes?"
Joseph enters. "Ma'am, there's a Miss Parkiss here to see you."
"Thank you, Joseph. Please ask her to wait a few minutes longer." She watches him as he stares at the peculiar editor, his eyes appreciatively drinking in the sight of her. "That will be all, Joseph."
He nods and leaves. The corner of Miranda's mouth turns up into a grin.
"Am I being ejected from your office?"
"Of course not. I need time to think about this offer, Ms. Priestly."
"I insist that you call me Miranda."
"You're a businesswoman, Miranda. Surely you understand my hesitations in putting the image of this House in your hands when, for nearly four consecutive seasons, you've made Maison Gilles the favorite in the city."
"If you're looking for me to explain the process of my decision making, I can assure you that it will not happen. I don't justify my decisions to anyone, much less a woman to whom I've personally made this offer. I could have sent one of my assistants to you, but I came alone. I don't make a habit of prostrating myself to others, Beatrice. It's usually the other way around."
"Are there ulterior motives?"
"Why speak in such terms?"
"I have no reason to trust you. I'm not sure that I do."
"Aah, but you have no reason not to trust me."
Bea smirks. "I will have to run this proposal by my sister."
"Naturally."
"I'm very intrigued, Miranda; don't misread me. I want to do the right thing by this business."
Miranda leans forward, her eyes shimmering. "Who says that impulsive decisions can't be the right thing?" Miranda stands, clutching her purse to her chest. "I can assure you, Beatrice, that you will be in very good hands. Good day."
Bea watches Miranda go, and within the devil's hands sifts the remnants of her soul.
---
Title: Queen of Swords
Prompt: "between shadows of a remembered time…"
Fandom: Miranda/Andy AU, The Devil Wears Prada: Lesson Learned
Requested by: dragonwine
Rating: R
Word Count: 1037
Disclaimer: Not mine. Wish they were. Please don't sue.
Author's Note: When dragonwine requested that I write a drabble based on his AU DWP fic, Lesson Learned, I have to admit that I was a bit nervous to attempt to emulate the brilliance he has achieved. This man is a master of words and the eloquence he puts forth into each chapter can only be savored. (In face, if you haven't yet read this ongoing fic, I suggest you get your booty over here and check it out! ) Also, FYI, the description of the Queen of Swords is not made it; it's straight from a book. Anyway, I sincerely hope that I have lived up to his expectations and that I have managed to contribute a companionable addition to the Lesson Learned universe.
-
Andy squares her shoulders and straightens her back to reach her full height, demanding a little respect and recognition with the space that she's now taking up. She's got every damn right to be here and stares down the line of men at the bar as she makes her way to the back room. Screw this "men only club" bullshit -- if she wants to take a gander at tits and ass, she's damn well going to.
She's not sure what she's doing in a strip joint anyway. She's got a paper for Dean Frost to finish and she knows she's got to put the advice from their one-on-one lessons to good use. All she wants to do is knock this paper out of the park, but history is the last thing on her mind.
She follows Anastasia into the dimly lit back room and makes a beeline for a seat away furthest away from the room's other occupants. She could do without hearing the pathetic groans of the puppets around her; it'll be all she can do not to watch them leave the room with hands in their pockets, pulling the fronts of their trousers away from rapidly deflating, jizz-covered dicks.
Andy settles back against the chair as the ebony beauty lasciviously licks her lips and spreads Andy's legs so that she may dance between them. She tries to hard to focus on the sway of Anastasia's hips but her mind is already drifting, wafting away from the present like the smoky haze around her.
Strip clubs aren't usually her thing. This is the sort of hideout that she anticipates her brother to favor with his frat chums, and she supposes she can't blame him. The feminist in her struggles to pick a side: her righteous anger flares for the working moms who need a few bucks just to scrape by, and her anti-conventional air sticks with the girls who're doing it for the sexual power.
It doesn't really matter where she places in stripper politics; she knows a few of the girls who work here and really needs to be lost in the shadows for a while.
Andy feels like a lost soul and as Anastasia grinds her ass into her thigh, she remembers exactly why she's sitting in a shady nudey bar instead of focused on her analysis of the French Revolution.
She blames it entirely on the Queen of Swords.
Andy's not much of a tarot reader; she could do without 78 judgmental cards attempting to assess her future and make random proclamations based on the contents of her mind at that moment. It takes a fair amount of gullibility to think that a pack of cards could tell the future when all it takes is for the reader to project their desires onto the cards and mold themselves to fit. It's a pile of bull, but she plays with the deck on occasion when she's desperate to procrastinate or simply needs an occupation for restless fingers. The cards aren't even really hers: a brief sexual stint with a pagan spiritualist left Lily with an abundance of crystals, tarot cards, and incense, and somehow most of it had been pawned off on Andy.
She'd been sitting on the floor of her bedroom, scattered notebooks to one side, splayed out tarot deck on the other. As she reread her illegible notes aloud, she shuffled and reshuffled the deck, pulling out miscellaneous cards as she went. She never put much stock into which cards she pulled-- that is, until she pulled the same card three times.
Anastasia pulls off the silver latex bikini top and drops it to the floor and Andy's mind is caught momentarily by the large, dark nipples hovering inches from her face. She's intrigued by their size, their shape, but the Queen of Swords reclaims her attention.
The image of the be-throned Queen brandishing a large sword had gnawed at her curiosity to the point where she'd been unable to continue with her notes. With a resigned sigh she'd pulled out the little book that came with the deck and flipped to the card's description: "The Queen of Swords is a mature woman, possibly a widow or divorcee. She is an independent lady who is rational, intelligent, and tends to be cool in a crisis. She's graceful, possibly with a fondness for music or dancing. She believes the right facts can fix any problem, and will offer that instead of sympathy or warmth. She is very alert to undercurrents and should not be underestimated."
If that damn card doesn't sum up Miranda Priestly, then Andy Sachs is a boy-banging girly-girl.
Andy doesn't know much about how to read a tarot card, but she's up on her 5th grade math skills enough to know that pulling a single card multiple times out of a deck of 78 isn't the most likely of occurrences.
And that's why Andy's here and why Anastasia's hands are sliding along the length of her thighs.
Miranda Priestly, Queen of Swords, is manifesting herself in every facet of Andy's life, and the fact that Andy can't have her is enough to send her into the sweaty hands of a stripper. The beer she'd drained prior to purchasing a lap dance runs swiftly through her veins and the stale smoke and lingering scent of men's spendings curls into her nostrils and fills her lungs with poison. It makes her lightheaded and anxious and angry.
Anastasia is beginning to look bored and Andy can tell that the dance is nearly over. She doesn't mind. She'll likely slug down a glass of water before she seeks the comfort of her Harley-ride home.
And as the stripper brushes her abnormally large nipples against her chest, she notices him over Anastasia's shoulder.
Irv Ravitz is sitting in a chair across the room, a petite blonde with a pixie-cut dry-humping him for all he's worth.
Andy has to choke back a laugh. If only Dean Priestly could see him now, the man would never be able to reclaim his dignity--or his balls.
And then it crosses her mind that she's still thinking of Miranda Priestly.
The Queen of Swords slays her once again.
---